Butterbeer at 9 AM
by moonyprof
Summary: Gilderoy Lockhart arrives at the Leaky Cauldron before his book signing at Flourish and Blotts. There is only one other customer there.


"Hmm. Eyebrows at a nice rakish angle—why hallo, you rogue, you! Collar just a _thought_ higher, ascot just a _thought_ lower, and –I can't really tell in this window. Hasn't Tom ever thought about having that distorted glass replaced? Doesn't he ever wash the windows? How am I supposed to see all of marvelous Me?"

Removing a handkerchief from the interior of his frock coat and carefully placing it over the door handle, Gilderoy Lockhart gingerly opened the door of the Leaky Cauldron. Because those gloves were spotless and one really can't be too careful, especially before a photoshoot.

After dusting off one of the barstools, he seated himself and gestured to Tom, who was tending bar. It was a bit early for Firewhisky, so . . .

"A pint of your best Butterbeer, Tom."

The trouble with being early so as to avoid all those rapturous fangirls was that it worked. Lockhart frowned: surely there would be some ladies on their way to Diagon Alley for back-to-school shopping? He occasionally complained about the difficulties of avoiding Hart!Moms, but the truth was that he felt rather lonely without them. He might as well have done without all those elaborate precautions. There was almost no one in the place except for a shabby fellow a bit further down the bar, reading a book and slurping down a Butterbeer.

Still, one must be gracious to one's public, even if there wasn't very much of it on the premises.

"A good idea to arrive early, I thought. All the attention can be wearing, you know."

The man looked up in surprise, shaggy hair falling into his eyes. "I'm sorry?" he said, blinking.

There was Butterbeer clinging to the man's mustache. Lockhart tried not to make sympathetic wiping gestures with his own handkerchief. He gave an overall impression of grey and brown: grayish brown hair, faded brown suit, worn brown wingtips. The tweed suit must have been rather nice when it was made, perhaps in the 1930s. Tweed did wear like iron, but even tweed gave up after a while. And while you can repair and polish dress shoes, even the best tended will show their age after a while.

"It's one of the inconveniences of being a published author, I'm afraid," said Lockhart. That, and being awarded _Witch Weekly_'s Most Charming Smile Award five times. I can't seem to tear myself away from signing every book. I'd be happy to sign that for you, in fact."

"Really?" the other man said, putting the book down, which Lockhart now noticed was old, brown, and tatty. "I didn't think Newt Scamander was so –dressy. Or even alive."

"No," Lockhart said with some irritation, and then, noticing that Tom had brought his drink, added, "where's the cream? And the little umbrella?"

"Umbrella. Right," said Tom, removing the drink and rolling his eyes.

"No, of course I'm not Newt Scamander. Gilderoy Lockhart."

"I'm so sorry," said the man at the other end of the bar, scrubbing his hair out of his eyes in an manner which struck Lockhart as annoyingly doglike. "I ought to have recognized you at once, I suppose. I'm afraid I've been out of the loop for quite some time."

Mollified, Lockhart said magnanimously, "No apologies necessary. Yes, I've written quite a few books. _Gadding With Ghouls, Holidays with Hags, Weekend with a Werewolf. . ._"

The other man perked up. "_Weekends with Werewolves_, did you say? You've actually spent weekends with werewolves, plural? I didn't think they were so social."

"Well, no. . . "

"I mean, generally a community feels that one werewolf is _quite _sufficient."

"Yes, but—"

"In fact, it wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that most municipalities felt that even _one _werewolf _more _than meets its current lycanthropic needs and is not shy about saying so. With pitchforks. And yet you say you've been near a whole werewolf _town._" He sounded wistful.

"No. I've never seen a werewolf town." Lockhart shuddered. "Good heavens, what a frightful idea. I simply meant that I have met any number of _different _werewolves on _separate occasions._"

"Ah. That's what I thought you meant. Still, you've met multiple werewolves, have you?" he asked, cocking his head somewhat intelligently.

"Of course." _Good heavens. Those scars. Surely some good skin care products would take care of those. I must remember to add that to the hair-care line. _"In fact, I defeated one, the Wagga Wagga Werewolf, entirely on my own and with no leader. The town was freed from the terror of werewolf attacks after that."

"You killed it," the man said, looking down into his Butterbeer. "Excuse me." He pulled a tired-looking wrapper out of his brown traveling cloak and broke off a piece. "Chocolate always makes me feel better. Would you like some?"

"Er. . . no." _Chocolate with Butterbeer? Did anyone over the age of fourteen eat chocolate with Butterbeer_? "No, I didn't kill it. I slammed him to the floor with one hand and performed the immensely complex Homorphus Charm with the other. The fangs shrank, the fur vanished, and there he was—a man like any other!"

"Really?" The man frowned. "Hmm. I thought there was no cure for werewolves. That's what Newt Scamander says in all his books, and I can't remember ever having met a Healer who said it was possible, and I would have surely . . . . if you truly could cure werewolves, you could do so much good to so many people."

"People would admire me, you think?"

"They would be terribly, terribly grateful. The, er, potential victims, that's what I mean."

"Of course," Lockhart gave the fellow one of his best award winning smiles. "One naturally wouldn't mean the _werewolves_. Ha ha!

"Ha, ha! But then, you wouldn't know, of course. You can't tell who's a werewolf and who isn't. Except at the full moon, I mean."

"Nonsense, dear boy," said Lockhart, delicately draining the last of the Butterbeer and flicking a stray bit of the cream up with his tongue. "It's perfectly easy to recognize a werewolf."

"It is?" said the man, smiling a one sided smile that showed a glint of canine.

"They're terribly hairy, for one thing."

"Yes, well. . . " the man shifted uncomfortably, "I don't think barbers would like having werewolf clients."

"Oh, not just the _face_, of course. _Everywhere_."

"Everywhere?" The man's eyes flew open, giving Lockhart a view of brown irises and reddened, bloodshot whites. _What a pity, _thought Lockhart. _He might not be so dreadful if things were done to him. Such as a haircut and a shave and some skin care, and to be honest some very extensive dermabrasion, and a good bath, and attractive silk jammies, and. . . things._

He felt a bit flustered himself now. "The palms," he clarified. "Werewolves always have hair even in the center of their palms. And they have long, reddish brown fingernails and sharp, pointed teeth. You can recognize a werewolf anywhere. At least I would." He glanced at his watch. "Good heavens, is that the time? How time flies when you're having fun." He rose, dusting himself carefully. "I must be off. I'm signing my autobiography, _Magical Me_, at Flourish and Blott's. And I'll be making a _rather important announcement._ I don't suppose it would do any harm. . . well, in the _strictest _confidence, I will be taking up the position of Professor for Defense Against The Dark Arts at Hogwarts."

"At Hogwarts?" The man looked nostalgic. And brown. "I went there. I miss the old place—and my friends. I wish you were able to give them my love."

Lockhart turned, about to enter Diagon Alley. "I would, only I don't believe you mentioned your name."

His eyes glinted. "No, I don't believe I did," and then, as Lockhart vanished from view, added sadly, "and in any case—you can't."


End file.
